


Imagine: Castiel really really likes your inspired idea of compromise when it comes to solving a long standing bone of contention persisting in your otherwise copacetic coupledom.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [65]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Implied Sexual Content, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21689248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural)/You
Series: Castiel Imagines [65]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/916281
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	Imagine: Castiel really really likes your inspired idea of compromise when it comes to solving a long standing bone of contention persisting in your otherwise copacetic coupledom.

Tromping over the threshold into the lamp lit confines of your bedroom, the seraph who’d treated you to his special brand of smoldering silence during the entire ride back to the bunker across no less than three state lines and through an especially awkward diner stop to satisfy Dean’s belly-aching yen for bacon skulks in after you. 

He took it personally - as his protective nature was wont to do - that you confronted two demons without waiting for angelic assistance; more so when you remarked rather snidely to Sam from the back seat about whether he could also hear the self-righteous bee up the angel’s ass going, “Buzz, buzz, buzz.” 

You hadn’t meant to wound him into a bout of brooding just as he hadn’t meant to suggest you were incapable of defending yourself. It’s a sore subject, and one you dance around daily despite your endless reassurances and love for one another.

You know the growl of a sigh vibrating his throat emerges completely for your benefit since the reproving celestial bastard doesn’t need to breathe and there’d be no reason for him to fill his vessel’s lungs with air except to exhale an airy rebuke expressly regarding your recent actions. 

That patient long suffering shtick of his makes him a stubborn dick when he wants to prove a point, and right now all you want to do is relax; whether that happens with him or not is entirely up to him.

You place a palm to his chest, to bar his entrance.

“I can handle myself, Castiel-” you say his full name like you’re chiding a child because the formality lends credence to your side of the complaint- “You can’t control every situation I step into, and you can’t always be there to wrap me up in your wings and shield me from the world. You knew what you signed up for when we got together, so either quit your seething or you can sleep somewhere else until you do.”

You flash a fiery gaze at him daring him to remind you he doesn’t require sleep.

The muscles of his jaw grind around the unspoken utterance; he’s not stupid, he knows you’re not wrong - he can’t control you, nor does he truly want to because that would be denying an essential aspect of what makes you, _you_ ; that knowledge, however clear, doesn’t stop the emotional strife he experiences in pondering how painful it would be to lose you or how much it _does_ hurt when you’re hurt.

Satisfied he’s at least considering what you said along with his options for the night being sucking it up by way of a snuggle session or being subjected to whatever campy Western Dean wants to watch replete with bonus drunken narration, you let your hand slip and spin to continue inward. 

Tossing your bag in the corner, not bothering to glance back, you move to the dresser and rifle through the top drawer for pajamas. In final effrontery of sass, you hurl a passive suggestion carelessly over your shoulder. “Ya know, if it’ll end this argument once and for all, why don’t you just bend me over your knee and spank the sin right the hell outta my soul. I’d like that better than the Broody McBroodypants routine.”

Irises two sparks of blue fire, Castiel contemplates your words and the curve of your spine as you raise your arms overhead to shed your t-shirt; this is one of those times where he isn’t certain you’re serious, but where his interest is most certainly piqued by the proposition. Without tearing his gaze away from the seductive sway of your hips as you shimmy the denim hugging them down around your ankles and step loose of the garment, he lifts the _do not disturb_ hanger you pilfered from a motel to annoy your brothers because they both made a big deal out of you hanging a sock there to let them know when they should steer clear if they didn’t want to hear what they claimed they really very vehemently _didn’t want to hear_ \- and which practice Cas never really understood anyway - from the worn metal knob and switches it to the outside knob.

He closes the door and prowls up so quietly behind you, you startle when you turn round and find yourself staring squarely into lustfully glowing blues.

“Is that really what you want?” His hot breath puffs across your face; stepping nearer, compelling you to shuffle backward, his evident excitement at the idea presses at your belly as he pinions your body and limbs against the dresser with the pure angelic intent of energy otherwise known as grace that both caresses and electrifies every inch of your being inside and out and laps fire between your thighs. 

You shiver and squeak in surprise at his sudden dominant and arousing shift in deportment; legs molten lava melting into the floor, you’re held up entirely by his divine will.

“Hmm?” Nuzzling your neck, scruff pleasantly searing your skin, he kisses and hums into your ear his earnest desire of an answer; the husky sound and low growl of want punctuating it resonate like shock waves through your soul and flood your senses with _him_. Calloused hands settling on and dipping at your waist and sliding to squeeze your buttocks, he stills himself, a thrum of celestial essence pulsing tantalizingly against your core waiting for you to recover enough of your scattered wits to allow your breathlessly trembling lips consent to reply.


End file.
